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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639647">molt</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool'>blooddrool</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>162 spoilers, M/M, canon-typical horror elements, dreamy horror, moth!jon ? you tell me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:28:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639647</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has ended, and Jonah has not stopped crying.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>molt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jonah has not stopped crying.</p><p>Jon read his words, their words, spoke them out into the air and brought them down upon the world — and ruined it, ruined the world so thoroughly, so beautifully. Perfectly. He did perfectly. He is more than Jonah could have asked for, more than Jonah could have hoped — though ask and hope he did.</p><p>And Jonah has not stopped crying.</p><p>He sees it all. He sees <em> everything</em>, just as Jon must see everything, too. A world of terror. The Eye’s new world. The Archivist’s World. The crown Jonah wears comes dripping from his eyes, these old, old eyes of his. Dripping from his eyes. Dripping. Like water in a pool. Cool, cool, quiet pool.</p><p>It was water. It <em> was </em> water, at first. That first day, or week, or month. He knows but he does not know. Tears like any old tears — so rare, shed from him. When was the last time? The last time he cried? Salt and water, warm down his cheeks, going cool and dry and stiff. He remembers but he does not remember. Strange. He always remembers.</p><p>The blood began slowly, gradually, like most things do. Like milk in tea. Like civilization. Like disease. Like an apocalypse — any one, take your pick, dealer’s choice. Jon read their words and the world ended and Jonah could <em> see</em>, had no choice but to see, and he cried, and cried, and cried, and his tears quickly ran pink. From thin and clear to thick and dark. To opaque. To red.</p><p>And he watched, and he saw. The suffering of every individual person, monster, thing. Pitiful, all of them. Pitiful things. And through them, he sees. Through one thing to another; through that, still, to yet another. Layering, compounding, magnifying. Through a screaming woman, a thing that used to be a screaming woman, he sees a cottage — and he weeps. Through a cottage, a thing that used to be a cottage, he sees Martin, dear Martin — and he weeps. And through Martin, dear Martin, he sees Jon, <em> dear </em> Jon — and he weeps. Sticky now, drying in flakes. Red like Mary holding her son. Red like Mary at his feet. Red like Mary screaming, always screaming — like Mary looking up, always looking.</p><p>But the red ran out. The red ran out when the body ran out of red to give. Poor Elias. Prince Elias, King Elias, hail. All dried up, tied up, dead to the world. Dead to what matters. Never dead to Jonah. But the body runs out. Runs out of water and runs out of blood. Of course it does. Jonah has not stopped crying. Jonah is not worried. Jonah is fine. Jonah is aged, is ageless. Jonah is human, is other. Jonah is ill, is well. Jonah is fearful, is fearless.</p><p>What is Jon? Dear Jon. Perfect Jon.</p><p>Jonah looks and sees. Jon is with Martin. Jon is wrapped tight, wrapped snug, wrapped safe. Not safe. Jon is changing. Jon is mourning. Jon is holding Martin, being held. Jon is listening to tapes, always with his tapes, eating them away, rolls and spools, like a caterpillar on a leaf. Jon is changing. Jon is mutating. Jon is molting.</p><p>The cottage that is not a cottage does not want to let him go. It wants to hold him close, hold him safe. Jonah, too, wants to hold him close, hold him safe. Jonah watches Jon leave it behind, all the same. Jonah watches Jon step forth, step free. Safe, not safe. Emerged. Like a spill of magnetic tape. Like after-birth. Blood wells from Jonah’s eyes, drips from his chin.</p><p>Then it is not-blood.</p><p>The Eye gives. The Eye has always <em> given</em>. The Eye <em> rewards</em>. This is Jonah’s reward: he watches, he sees, and he is filled.</p><p>With what? Something black, thick. Something old. Something recycled through him, over and over again. It stains his fingertips when he brings them to his face. It does not wipe off. He does not know what it is, and it does not matter. He knows exactly what it is, and it does not matter.</p><p>It does not matter. It pours from him, dribbles down his neck, puddles on his shoulders, in the well of his collarbones. Dripping, always dripping. Soft and dark and clean. Clean. It does not matter: Jonah sees all. Jonah sees all.</p><p>Jon is on his way.</p><p>Wait. Hush now, quiet now. Watch.</p><p>Jon is here. Dear Jon. Perfect Jon.</p><p>Martin, too. Where is Martin? Jonah does not know. Jonah knows. Jonah does not care. Jonah is crying, always crying, and Jon is here.</p><p>Look at Jon. Look at him. Isn’t he wonderful? Isn’t he magnificent? This Jon who is not Jon. Who is still Jon. Look at how he struggles, how he staggers, new on his legs like a thing just born. Sweet Jon. His eyes see so much, endless and forever. How many does he have, now? Does he know? He does not know. Jonah knows. Count them. More eyes than he has limbs. More, more. Lovely Jon.</p><p>Lovely Jon reaches out. He does not speak. Could he, if he wanted to? Can a thing speak without a tongue? Can a thing speak with a split mandible? Lovely, winged Jon. Jonah misses his voice.</p><p>Lovely Jon reaches out. Jonah does not reach back. He can’t. Why can’t he? He wants to. Jon’s hand is on his cheek, sharp in strange ways, twitching. Cups his face. Tracks through his black tears. Smears them. Jonah sees, Jonah is looking, Jonah is watching — and it hurts.</p><p>It hurts.</p><p>Jon is here. Archivist, Archive. It burns. Like fire behind his eyes. It hurts.</p><p>Jon is here. “Archivist,” Jonah says. Jonah is speaking. How is he speaking? “Archive.”</p><p>The thing that was once Jon–</p><p>The thing with no tongue, the thing with two mandibles–</p><p>It smiles. And Jonah weeps.</p>
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